


House Warming Party

by Pas_Cal



Series: Gallantry of Gilbert [8]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Developing Friendships, Humor, Nostalgia, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 07:50:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16013525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pas_Cal/pseuds/Pas_Cal
Summary: Some things stand as reminders of the past while others are better left to the ashes. Ivan knows this—has known it—and decides it’s time to let go.





	House Warming Party

The flick of a lighter drew Ivan’s attention. From beside him, Gilbert stood with a hand cupped in front of his face, a small flame flickering in between. He watched idly as the cigarette between Gilbert’s lips took light, and a small line of smoke slithered up into the air. Gilbert tucked the lighter away without a word, taking a deep drag from the cigarette before plucking it from his lips and breathing out a stream of smoke.

It was bitter cold, as winter in Russia was wont to be, but neither man seemed to mind much. They were both donned in thick layers, ankle deep in snow, and waiting.

“So why me?” Gilbert asked, voice gruff and low and nasally. He had a cold, that much was obvious. He shuffled in place, flicking the ash off his cigarette as he sniffed. “I mean, other than the obvious.”

Ivan shrugged. “You’re the only one who seemed willing to talk,” he answered frankly. He felt Gilbert’s ruby stare on him at that. It made him prickle uncomfortably, so he made a point to keep his gaze forward. “And the only one I was comfortable asking in the first place,” he added.

If Gilbert was satisfied with the answer, or wanted to hear more, he made no inclination of it. He simply perched his cigarette between his lips again and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Before them stood the massive manse that used to be what they called home. It was old and dilapidated, fallen into disrepair. Windows cracked, siding hanging loose from its outer walls. One of the front pillars leading toward the front door stood crooked, half snapped in the middle and splintering apart. There were areas that used to be painted but had been worn away to show the wood beneath. What flora had been there lay dead and decayed, or overgrown. Vines had climbed up the panels and over the roof, pulling shingles loose and creeping inside where the windows were either broken or hung open.

It had been Gilbert’s home for a while, too; back when Germany had been split and the USSR reigned strong. Ivan had moved in when the Romanov’s had Gone, and there he’d stayed until the house was bustling with many nation-people alike, and then long after they had departed and left its halls empty and silent.

It was lonely. One man in a giant house with no one to keep him company, to talk to or have meals together. He’d all but cordoned off half of the house, residing only in the west wing of the first floor. His office. His bedroom. The kitchen and parlor. Everything else remained untouched, coated in a layer of dust if not covered with sheets to hide away the antique furniture.

“Do you think we’ll get in trouble…?” Ivan asked quietly, brow furrowed as he watched the house looming before them. He heard Gilbert sniff, though it did little for his runny nose.

“Nah.” Gilbert begrudgingly pulled a used tissue out of his pocket. “I set it up to look like a gas leak. And anyway, what are they gonna do? It’s your house.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“If they do find out, just be sure not to make any insurance claims. _That’s_ what gets people fucked.”

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m not.” Gilbert flashed a toothy, red nosed grin, which only served to make Ivan scowl. “Rest easy,” he continued. “You’re a government official. Diplomatic Immunity or whatever. American politicians get away with shit all the time.”

“This isn’t America, Gilbert.” Ivan shuffled in place, stamping the snow down around his feet.

“And you’re not a civilian,” Gilbert reminded him. “Just be sure not to point the blame on me.”

“Well, technically speaking, you _are_ the one who will have set fire to the place. That does make you an arsonist.”

“If you _dare_ try to put it on me, I’ll smash your god damn nose in,” Gilbert all but growled. It was enough to make Ivan chortle, even pulling a smile onto his lips.

“Making that threat is useless when you’ve actually done it before. I can weather a broken nose.”

Gilbert let out what Ivan assumed to be a scoff, but with is stuffy nose it came out more like a snort. It caught in his throat, sending Gilbert into a small fit of coughing. The cigarette he’d had perched between his lips ended up dropping into the snow, and Ivan watched as Gilbert stared at it forlornly, only to kick the white powder over it to snuff it out. He didn’t attempt to light up another.

Flakes of snow had begun to drift down from above. The silence from before settled around them. Winter always had a way of draining all the background noise from the world, Gilbert had noticed. He could hear the shuffle of fabric and nylon when Ivan shifted. The soft snow settling on the already thick layer of white on the ground. But everything outside of that little bubble of theirs was absolutely quiet.

“Why?”

Ivan looked back toward Gilbert, watching as he yanked his scarf up over his chin. His gaze was squinty, as if all the white around them was too bright, despite the gray sky.

“Why burn it?”

Gilbert nodded stiffly, snuffling as he wiped at his nose with the tissue he’d pulled out.

“Because I hate it,” Ivan replied simply, violet gaze flickering back toward the manse. “And I have no use for sentiment regarding this place. There’s nothing happy to remember here.”

“None?” Gil arched a brow, glancing sidelong at the other.

“You lived here just as long as me, Gilbert.  You know perfectly well there was little to be enjoyed here.”

Gilbert hummed noncommittally, breathing out a heavy sigh that frosted in the air. “The garden was nice,” he murmured. “When it was kept up, anyway. Christ, look at it now.”

The garden had very much grown out past it’s perimeter. With it being the middle of winter, it looked absolutely dreadful. Nothing but bare branches and dead leaves hidden under a blanket of snow. During the warmer seasons, he knew it’d be a green monstrosity reaching feet into the air. Untrimmed bushes and ivy that hadn’t been tamed. Wild flowers and weeds and a thick layer of natural mulch where leaves and petals would have fallen during autumn.

It probably would have looked prettier then, even in its dilapidated state. There was a certain quaintness to old homes being overtaken by nature. But in the dead of winter where it was nothing but cold and bleak, the home looked more like a death trap. The kind of house kids told scary stories and made double-dog-dares about.

“You didn’t take anything out of there,” Gilbert asked. “Did you?”

“No,” Ivan said quietly. “I have a new place. It’s smaller. More fit for one person.” He gave a wry smile. “Not even a guest bedroom.”

“Well, shit.” Gilbert scowled. “Does that mean I’m sleeping on the couch?”

“I thought you got a hotel room?”

“As if! Look, man. I’m blowing your house up as a _favor_. The least you could do is put me up for the night before I haul my sorry sick ass back to Berlin.”

Ivan pressed his lips together, humming as he mulled over his thoughts. “I’ll do you one better,” he said. “I’ll even feed you. Free of charge.”

“Throw in a beer and we’ll call it good.”

“Fine. And a beer.”

Gilbert pulled one of his hands free from his pocket, pushing the sleeve back at the wrist to look at his watch. His ruby gaze flickered back up toward the house, squinting as he did the calculations. Only then did it occur to Ivan that perhaps standing idly by wasn’t quite the smartest idea. Gilbert seemed to pick up on his anxious shuffling.

“There’s not gonna be an explosion,” Gilbert said flatly. “Not a big one, anyway,” he amended. “Give it another minute.”

Ivan had his reasons to doubt him, but Gilbert was, first and foremost, a very calculated man who worked meticulously toward perfection. Even when it came to setting a house on fire, Ivan was sure Gilbert went through every measure to make it look completely natural and, surprisingly, untheatrical.

Sure enough, after a minute had passed, there was a loud bang from inside that sent a few windows shattering from the shock. Ivan watched as a wicked grin split across Gilbert’s face, ruby gaze glinting. It didn’t take long at all for Ivan to spot the yellow flicker of flames dancing from inside the building. Smoke was the first thing to seep out of the windows.

“You really just left everything in there?” Gilbert cocked his head back to look at Ivan a little more directly. “All of it?”

“Aside from most of the pictures and books. Everything else I left. Old paperwork. Dinnerware. All the furniture.” He shrugged. “There was no reason to keep any of it.”

“You could’ve sold it,” Gilbert said. “A bunch of that stuff is probably priceless antiques.”

“Too much hassle. This is easier.”

There was a loud pop from inside, and another spurt of flame started to make its debut.

Little by little, the fire began to spread. Hot dancing fingers of yellow and orange clawed along the floor boards, hungrily devouring the rotted wood and musty carpets. Freshly and sloppily polished furniture lit up in a heartbeat. Gilbert’s doing, there, to help speed things along. The banister leading up the grand staircase arced up toward the second floor in a long snake of flame. Where the polish had dripped, the fire jumped to and went on from there.

Piano wires snapped from the heat. Cabinets tumbled and loosed their contents all over the floor. In the parlor, the gramophone set alight, melting the dusty vinyl record still perched on the spoke. Eventually, the flames reached the open windows and caught hold of the dry vines clinging to the building. Those didn’t take long at all.

Gilbert let out a whistle, looking all too satisfied with his work. “That went up a little quicker than I thought. Nice.”

Ivan only gratified him with a soft hum, listening to the old boards creak and groan under the torturous heat. A plume of dust and smoke shot out one far side bottom window where the flooring must have collapsed from above. It was a chain reaction from there.

It took a little over half an hour for the old place they’d once called home to collapse in on itself, spewing plumes of smoke from every shattered window and open gap that could be found. The heat radiating from the blaze had begun to melt the snow immediately surrounding the area. The snow that had begun to fall came down just a little more damp and heavier than it had been. Neither Gilbert nor Ivan moved, however. They stood side by side, transfixed on the sight before them.

“Wish to God I had a camera for this,” Gilbert mumbled under his breath.

“I’m sure it’ll make an excellent entry for your diary.” Ivan couldn’t help but smile at the indignant look Gilbert shot his way.

In the distance, there was the unmistakable sound of sirens echoing through the crisp air. Ivan tilted his head, trying to gage how far away they must be. They likely only had minutes before the authorities showed up.

“What do you think? Should we bail?” Gilbert looked toward Ivan for a response.

“Probably. No reason to stay and look guilty. It’s done.”

“Good. I’m driving.”

“It’s _my_ car,” Ivan started, looking vexed.

“Yeah, and I rode passenger on the way here. That’s a torment I don’t plan to suffer again,” Gilbert snapped, turning on his heels to trudge through the snow, following the tracks they’d made on the walk up to the manse. “Whoever the fuck taught you to drive must’ve been drunk.” He fell still a moment, staring blankly ahead with a scowl. When he started forward again, he grumbled, “what the hell am I talking about. This is Russia. Of course they were.”

Ivan lumbered after him, looking vaguely insulted yet unwilling to remark back.

Gilbert had a fair point with the statement, and wasn’t entirely wrong, either. But Ivan remained quiet on the matter and simply allowed Gilbert to have his way. This once, at least.

Behind them, another section of the house collapsed under its weight. The flames had grown ever higher, belching smoke and ash into the air above. The supporting beams of the porch finally gave way, toppling down when the wood finally cracked and splintered apart. All that would be left was a skeleton of the house when the flames were put out. Scorched ground and blackened beams where they were too sodden to truly take light.

Ancient history, as far as Ivan and Gilbert were concerned. With the house gone, there was no reason to ever return.

The memories they shared of that place were now nothing but ashes, and they were just fine with that.


End file.
